by Ken Bruen
Ammunition
( Inspector Brant - 7 )
Ken Bruen
Ken Bruen
Ammunition
1
Brant was on his third whisky, knocking it back like a good un. He was feeling real bad, Ed McBain was dead, and nothing could ease the loss he felt. He muttered:
‘Fuck.’
The barman, highly attentive to Brant’s needs, asked:
‘Yes?’
Brant gave him the granite eyes, said:
‘I want something, you’ll know.’
Brant’s rep was legendary. In South-East London, he was feared by cops and villains alike. Numerous attempts had been made by the brass to get rid of him, but he had survived every effort.
London was in a state of high alert. Since the terrorist attacks, an air of paranoia ruled. It wasn’t that the populace wondered if the bombers would strike again, but a question of where and when.
The only hero Brant had ever had was McBain, and he’d collected all the novels. He had the latest one. Alas, now the final one, and he couldn’t bring himself to read it. He was about to shout another drink when he heard:
‘Sergeant?’
He turned to see Porter Nash, the recently promoted Porter Nash, dressed in a very flash suit. Porter was the only openly gay cop on the squad and was probably their best investigator. Brant, who hated everyone, had an unlikely friendship with him. Neither of them could quite figure out why they enjoyed each other’s company, but fuck, go figure, they just went with it. Brant said:
‘Some suit.’ Porter took the stool beside Brant, asked:
‘You like it?’
Brant signalled for the barman, took a long look at the suit, said:
‘It helps if you’re gay.’
Porter laughed, most times it was the only way to go. You had dealings with Brant, you needed a great sense of humour or a sawn-off. Brant ordered two large whiskies and Porter protested:
‘I wanted some vodka.’
Brant blew it off, said:
‘With lime, I suppose. Have a real drink for once.’
The barman knew Brant, of course, everybody knew him, but the other geezer, he was new and very worrying. He had manners, said thank you when he plonked the drinks down, so he couldn’t be a cop. But he had a look, despite the nancy suit, he had a way of holding himself, that was… not to be fucked with. The barman would keep an eye, see what he could discover.
Brant clinked his glass against Porter’s, said:
‘I think the bar guy fancies you.’
Porter took a quick glance, said:
‘Not my type.’
Brant knocked back a lethal gulp, Porter sipped at his then, seeing Brant’s expression, took a larger sip, said:
‘Could I get some water for this?’
Brant was lighting a cig. He’d switched to a so-called low-tar brand, it wasn’t doing it. Porter, six months without smoking, inhaled the smoke greedily, resigned himself to the neat whisky, asked:
‘So what do you think of the Yank?’
Brant looked at his watch and, if he’d only known, he had maybe ten minutes before he was shot.
The Yank was L. M. Wallace, a terrorist expert. All the squads had been assigned one, the reasoning being that they knew when and where an attack might happen. As the Americans spoke of 9/11, the Brits, alas, now had 21/7. Brant stubbed out the cig, said:
‘Haven’t met him yet.’
His tone suggested he could give a fuck, but he asked:
‘You met him?’
Porter nodded. He’d been assigned as mentor, guide, nanny, what the fuck ever, mainly to ensure the guy was made welcome. He said:
‘He’s big, I’ll give him that.’
Brant laughed, his special filthy one that had no relation to humour, and he said:
‘Hung, eh?’
Porter finished the drink and felt the warmth caress his stomach, the artificial ease. He’d take any relief he got, said:
‘The guy is about fourteen stone and has a face that looks like someone blasted him with a blowtorch, and his credentials, impressive, I’ve got to admit.’
Nothing, nothing in the world impressed Brant. He asked:
‘Impress me.’
The shooter entered the bar, the Browning Automatic in his jacket. He had racked the slide a moment before and was, so to speak, cocked. He saw the two cops at the bar. Got his stance in gear.
Porter said:
‘FBI Anti-Terrorist Squad, Special Ops, Homeland Security, and a whole batch of citations.’
Brant digested this and was about to make a smart-ass reply.
The shooter had the Browning out. He was about to squeeze the trigger when a woman pushed open the door, knocking him slightly off balance. He muttered:
‘Fuck.’
Tried to regain his balance, pulling on the trigger. Released a barrage of shots. Bottles exploded behind the counter, pieces of the counter flew in the air, and Porter pushed Brant to the floor, covering his body with his own. The gunman, seeing the cops down, hoped to fuck he’d hit something and legged it. People were screaming, a drunk, sozzled in the corner, came out of his stupor, asked:
‘Is it Christmas?’
Porter was on his radio, screaming:
‘Shooting, gunman heading from the King’s Arms on the Kennington Road.’ He stood up, the smell of cordite, mixed with the spilled booze, was heady. He looked down. Brant wasn’t moving and Porter bent, put out his arm, saw the hole in Brant’s back, he screamed:
‘Get a fucking ambulance.’
To his radio, he shouted:
‘Officer down, repeat, officer down.’
The drunk began to hum ‘Jingle Bells.’
Ammunition. Powder, shot, shell, etc. Offensive missiles generally.
— dictionary definition
2
When PC McDonald heard Brant had been shot, he nearly punched the air, wanted to shout:
‘Fucking brilliant.’
But he was in the police canteen and had to act like the others, pretend to be shocked, outraged, jumping to his feet, ready to seek out the shooter. He was shocked all right, couldn’t believe that someone had finally got Brant. He hated that bastard with all his heart. There’d been a time, Jesus, how long ago? McDonald had been golden, the kid on the way up, earmarked by the Super as his boy. All he had to do, simple really, was ensure that Brant got fucked and good.
Piece of cake.
Alas, piece of very poisoned cake.
Brant was such a wild card, such a maverick, that all you had to do was watch him, let the proof fall into your lap, bingo, he was gone. But Brant got wind of it, and ever since, McDonald’s career was in the toilet. Fuckup followed fuckup and always, behind each new disaster was the smirk of Brant. It culminated in a last-ditch effort to be a hero and yeah, that went south and worse, McDonald got shot. The Met were in dire straits and desperately needed good press so they managed to have McDonald appear some sort of half-arsed hero, and though he kept his job, he was a figure of derision to the others. A leper in blue, to be avoided, and the Super, just buying time till he quietly dumped him.
Meantime, he was drawing all the shite assignments and like, who was he gonna call? The duties usually given to rookies were now thrown to him. His current brief? Standing outside shopping centres, giving directions to pissed-off pedestrians. He needed something major, something biblical, to turn his career around, but for the life of him, he couldn’t come up with anything. Nigh resigned to his fate, he’d begun looking at security guard advertisements, truly, the bottom rung of a cop’s descent into hell.
WPC Andrews was the exact opposite of McDonald. She was relatively new, had gotten the break he’d dreamed about, she’d been a reluctant hero, a
nd even Falls, who cut slack for nobody, seemed to almost like her. On hearing about Brant, she began to weep, she still bought the crap, how the downing of one of their own diminished them all. She actually voiced this to Chief Inspector Roberts, who looked at her like she was mad. She put this down to shock, she knew how close he was to Brant.
Close!
That would be stretching it. They had history, lots of it, primarily bad, but they were connected, Brant continually managed to amaze Roberts, the risks he took, his whole attitude to the world fascinated and appalled Roberts. The chief inspector stared at Andrews, her fresh face, the whole gung ho spirit, he wanted to tell her he wasn’t surprised Brant had been shot, simply dismayed it had taken so long. You danced on the edge like Brant did, they were going to get you, and that was just the good guys.
He asked:
‘I’m on my way over to the hospital. You want a lift?’
She was delighted. They could share and bond, form a special relationship born of grief and empathy, and he wasn’t unattractive, plus, it would add to her cred, heighten her profile.
They were on their way out when Foley, the desk sergeant, called Roberts, who snapped:
‘Not now, for heaven’s sake, Brant has been shot.’
Foley wanted to protest:
‘Hey, don’t bite my bloody head off. You think I don’t hurt, don’t I bleed too, am I not human?’
He’d recently seen The Elephant Man and had been profoundly affected. There was other whiny stuff he wanted to say but felt it wouldn’t fly, he’d keep it for his wife and, who knew, he might even get another of them pity shags. Instead, he adopted his officious tone, let the bastard know he knew what was important, said:
‘I wouldn’t, of course, have bothered you, sir, at such a moment… ’
Paused.
Let the hard leak all over the words, then:
‘But the caller said he had information on the shooting.’
Roberts looked like he might hit him, and the sergeant backed off a little. Roberts barked:
‘There isn’t anyone else in the whole station to take the call? Every nutter in South-East London is going to be on the blower claiming he did it. Surely you’re capable of taking a message your own self, you’ve been sat on yer arse long enough to know.’
The slur of being a desk jockey was not lost, and the sergeant let that hang for a moment then said, in an icy voice:
‘Yes sir, and I wouldn’t have bothered you in your moment of tremendous urgency, but the caller did specify you by name and my years of sitting on my… rear… tell me he’s genuine.’
He was well pleased with this, felt it said:
‘Fuck you, Jack, and proper.’
Roberts sighed, brushed past the sergeant, grabbed the phone, spat:
‘This is Roberts.’
Heard:
‘So terribly loath to bother you at a time of obviously deep distress and trauma.’
The voice was rich, cultured, what used to be called a BBC accent, not to mention extremely posh. It immediately got up Roberts’s nose. He demanded:
‘You have information on a shooting?’
His impatience, testiness, was palpable and answered by a full chuckle, it wasn’t laughter, no, it was the sound of someone who was delighted at the response. He mimicked Roberts:
‘ “ A shooting.” You jest, my good fellow. Surely it’s the shooting, or am I overrating the value of our esteemed Detective Sergeant Brant?’
Roberts was gripping the receiver so hard it hurt the palm of his hand. He tried to loosen up in every sense, asked:
‘You have information, is that right?’
Again, the chuckle, a real fun guy, then:
‘Well, old bean, it’s not a social call, pleasurable as that would no doubt be, this is indeed a call with information. Might there be a financial incentive for me to, as they say, “spill the beans.”’
Roberts was signalling for the desk sergeant to get a trace on the call. The sergeant ignored him, elected not to know what Roberts meant with his furious hand gestures. See how he liked to be fucked with.
Roberts said into the phone:
‘Any citizen helping the police will be entitled to the full gratitude of the Met?’
Even Roberts knew this sounded like a crock, and the guy said:
‘Tut tut, Chief Inspector, the party line, what? I’ll expect a more enlightened approach when next I call.’
Roberts nigh panicked, rushed:
‘What’s the information? How do I know you’re not just some nut case?’
Silence and Roberts thought the guy was gone, then:
‘You’ll discover the weapon was a Browning Automatic, the full clip was… employed… and my deepest apologies for the somewhat… how shall we say, scatter-gun theatrics, but good help is so hard to find, I’m sure you have similar difficulties with staff. If a next time is required, I shall try to ensure a little more finesse.’
Roberts realised he was sweating, tried:
‘ “Next time.” What the hell does that mean?’
There was a burst of static on the line, then the guy said:
‘if perchance our beloved Sergeant Brant hasn’t cashed in his chips, then we shall have to try again, persistence being the quality we can all aspire to. For now, tootle-pip.’
Roberts wanted to scream, ’ tootle-pip ’? Who the fuck talked like that outside of the pages of a P. G. Wodehouse novel. He gasped:
‘But why, why Sergeant Brant?’
A full baritone laugh, then:
‘Your attempts to keep me on the line are admirable if a tad amateurish, but as to why, really, Chief Inspector, can you honestly think of anyone who doesn’t want to shoot the said misfortunate?’
Click.
The bastard was gone.
Roberts whirled round to the desk jockey, shouted:
‘Did you trace him?’
The sergeant asked:
‘Oh, did you want a trace?’
Roberts nearly went over the desk, reined it in a bit, said:
‘That’s what my bloody hand signals were for, you moron.’
The sergeant, not missing a beat, said:
‘Ah, I thought you were asking for tea? Speaking of which, shall I order you up a nice cuppa, you seem a touch overwrought?’
Roberts spun on his heel, snapped at Andrews:
‘What are you standing around for, bring the damn car.’
Andrews felt it was a bit ripe to take it out on her, but kept her thoughts to herself.
Roberts comforted himself with the thought that all calls into the station were recorded as a matter of course and maybe they’d get something off those. He ordered the desk guy to have the tapes in his office… pronto.
The desk sergeant muttered:
’Seig Heil.’
3
Falls was between exhilaration and depression. One moment she wanted to scream in triumph, then was plunged into the depths. Her third attempt, she’d passed the sergeants’ exam.
Well, cheated on the sergeants’ exam.
Brant had gotten the papers for her, and she’d made the requisite protest when he’d offered to get them. She’d said:
‘Oh, I can’t do that.’
Brant had given his wolf smile, said:
‘Fine, but you’ll fail again and guess what, babe, there ain’t going to be a fourth try.’
That she had to agree was true on both counts, she said:
‘I’ve been studying, really trying.’
Brant laughed out loud, said:
‘Bollocks. You’re black, they already have their quota of minorities in place and you, you’ve got some very… colourful… form.’
No argument there, she’d more screwups than Liza Minnelli, so she had to ask:
‘And what will it cost me?’
You did business with Brant, it always cost, a lot, and if it was only money but no, something you had to compromise yourself with. He said:
‘I’
ll think of something.’
She asked:
‘How will you get the papers?’
He laughed out loud, then:
‘Do you really want to know?’
She didn’t, and he said:
‘Thought so.’
Then he added:
‘Sergeant.’
And here it was, the official confirmation of it. All those years of slogging away and now she was Sergeant Falls. Years ago, she’d been the wet dream of the nick, all the coppers had the hots for her, and her blackness only added to her appeal. But the job, the job had turned her into a female Brant almost, and the appreciation of her went down the toilet. And the new bitch, Andrews, she was the current prize. Falls had fallen prey to coke, booze, and she knew they suspected she’d had some involvement in the death of a notorious cop killer. She’d managed to block that whole episode out of her head.
Sometimes, in her nightmares, she’d see a hammer and on waking, drenched in sweat, she’d resolve not to dwell on it, muttering:
‘Just more bad shit.’
The past was not so much another country as a minefield of horror. She shook herself, physically ridding her psyche of bad karma, whispered:
‘Moving AYEon, girl.’
Focused on her new status… status… Sergeant… Sergeant Falls, had a ring to it, the ring of a winner. The phone went and she figured Brant. The price to pay. It was Porter Nash. They’d been the best of mates once, minorities battling together.
Hadn’t lasted.
Mores the Brixton-ed pity.
Porter Nash got right to it, said:
‘Brant’s been shot.’
Hit her like a… hammer?
Took her a moment to grasp, and she asked:
‘Is he…?’
Porter said:
‘He’s in intensive care. We won’t know for a few hours yet.’
He gave her the name of the hospital, and she said she’d be right over. It was after she’d put the phone down that she realized she’d forgotten to tell Porter she’d made the grade. Didn’t look like there’d be any party to celebrate now and, hating herself, she thought maybe she wouldn’t have to repay Brant, then said aloud: